


Till Debt Us Do Part

by LaBelladoneX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bribery, F/M, Financial Issues, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelladoneX/pseuds/LaBelladoneX
Summary: Draco goes all out and bribes some fellow Slytherins to help him woo Hermione Granger. He doesn't spend much; an Easter egg, some nails, couple of train tickets... maybe a handbag? He's not sure. And he can't remember what Millicent asks for. Hmm... well, it can't be that much, it is Millicent after all. But, in true Draco style, it all goes tits up. And maybe Hermione is hiding a secret of her own...





	Till Debt Us Do Part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noppoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noppoh/gifts).



> Written for Strictly Dramione’s “Summer Loving - Back to Hogwarts” Fest 2018 on Facebook. Love always to my alpha/beta team - coyg-81, In Dreams, and Noppoh. 
> 
> Pinterest board for the outfits and gifts (read: bribes):  
> https://www.pinterest.ie/LaBelladoneX/harry-potter-fanfiction/till-debt-us-do-part/
> 
> Cover art by coyg-81: https://www.tumblr.com/search/coyg81
> 
> One more thing: the fic is rated M for language and the odd sexual reference, there’s no smut. I’m so sorry!

****

**Pander & Bawd Publishers, Diagon Alley (early January)**

Grease practically dripped from the mouth of the slimy, heavyset wizard as he gesticulated, the buttons of his waistcoat hanging on for dear life as they stretched across his bulging stomach.

“Mr Malfoy, sir! Your new book… I’m all agog! It will be such a hit, sir, I just know it will! The Violent Vagina is already a huge success with the witches — if you know what I mean — and I’m sure The Virgin’s Vital Stain will outsell it twice over!”

Pander and/or Bawd spewed praise at Lucius as the Death-Eater-turned-self-help-guru sat erect on the mustard velour two-seater in the first floor office of the publishing company. He frowned at the creases in his linen trousers, planning to chastise Narcissa later on for suggesting he wear them. They just didn’t go with the espadrilles!

“Yes, yes,” he drawled. “I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful success. Did you remember to put Miss Granger’s name in the acknowledgements? Good. Now, I want the book launch to be held at Gringotts. Why? Because my fans need to donate to her charities! And they won’t be allowed leave until they do!”

Pander and/or Bawd practically wet himself. If he could just get Miss Granger to write a book…

* * *

**Later that evening at Malfoy Manor**

“Darling, the book launch will be Thursday next, at Gringotts. Isn’t that a brilliant idea of mine? There’s no reason for Miss Granger not to gain from my success! Well, not her directly, you understand — those magnificent charities she oversees. The Independent Homes for Elves Against Ruthless Treatment is really taking off, and her new one — what’s it called? Oh, yes! — Debt-Ridden Animagi, Centaurs, Ogres, and Merpeople will definitely help the less well-off, thanks to my substantial contributions. It’s just… someone should do something about her wardrobe. She’s still wearing leather, Cissa, _despite_ my arguments!”

Narcissa peered out through her legs at her husband. Mmmmm — she licked her lips — those linen trousers _really_ did suit him and, with his hair flowing around his shoulders like that, he looked almost angelic. Not to mention, sexy as Hades! Her dirty, dirty angel.  
  
Unfolding herself from the Extended Puppy pose — chi firmly in place — Narcissa began to stretch out her long, slim legs.

“I have classes on Thursday morning, Lucius. Madam Nithercott’s Supine Pigeon pose needs work. After that, I’ll need to prepare for my weekend. There’s over fifty booked in for my Colouring Consciousness classes, I’ll have to ask Skipper to buy more magenta and cerulean inks. I’m not sure if I have the time to attend the book launch.”

Lucius looked traumatised. “But, Cissa,” he pouted. “I _need_ you there. You can talk to people! I don’t… I can’t… Cissa, please, don’t make me! I can’t deal with the proletariat! They might… touch me.”

“Don’t be silly, Lucius. I touch you. Draco touches you.”

“Well, I don’t mind when you touch me, Cissa. Especially when you… you know… to Sir Lance-A-Lot,” he explained, wiggling his eyebrows before pouting _again_. “And that wastrel only touches me when I’m handing over more Galleons, or my Gringotts Gold Card.”

“Speaking of our son.” Narcissa rolled her eyes, curling herself into the Funky Side Crow, “Have you told him?”

“No, but I asked him to meet us here.”

Lucius spent the next few minutes hardening up at the sight of his wife’s arse as she morphed through various yoga poses until Draco walked in unannounced.

Ken, the newest house-elf, ran along beside him, gasping for breath and tugging at Draco’s trouser leg.

“Master Draco, I is supposed to introduce you!”

“Why?” He peered down at the tiny creature, his brow creasing. “They know who I am.”

“Master—”

“It’s alright, Ken,” Narcissa called over, her mouth muffled by her chest. “Draco can come in this time. Perhaps you could start that job we discussed earlier?”

“I is going to do that right now, Mistress!”

The little elf dashed out of the room, leaving the aristocratic family alone. Lucius rearranged himself in the armchair, his erection a tad uncomfortable. Narcissa sat on the floor in the lotus position, greeting her son with a pleasant _Namaste_.

“Er… right, nasty-tea to you too,” Draco attempted, dropping down onto the chaise longue. “I’m on my way to meet Blaise and Theo, can we be quick?”

“Well, Draco,” Lucius began, moving around in his seat again, “Your mother and I were having a chat recently and decided it’s about time you left the family home. You know — spread your wings, leave the nest… _do one_ … all that jazz. So, we set up an account for you at Gringotts and got you somewhere else to live. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Draco answered, not really listening as he was too busy hoping a certain History of Magic professor would be at The Leaky later on when he met up with the boys. She usually escaped Hogwarts on Friday evenings so, hopefully… _fuck_ , he really wanted her to be there. This was more than an obsession with Hermione Granger; this was true love, albeit unrequited. Being on opposite sides during a war will do that, but Draco was determined to win her over… by any means.

“Right,” Lucius declared, leaning forward to relieve the pressure — the sight of Narcissa’s spread legs nearly killing him. “That’s settled. There were three million Muggle pounds — just over six hundred thousand Galleons — in the account from which we paid for a rather attractive penthouse in Muggle London. Richmond, in fact. It’s about time you branched out on your own, Draco, and this property is perfect for you — fully furnished, high-end kitchen, car parking... all those mod cons, you know?”

He did a really good job memorising the brochure — not having a clue what _car parking_ meant — but acknowledging that Richmond was the ideal place for their son to move to. Just far enough.

Draco’s brain, however, was stripped naked in a jacuzzi filled to the brim with Charpentier Brut Reserve and Hermione — equally bare but wearing reading glasses and a graduate’s cap — was writhing against him whilst seductively reciting the list of honoured guests at the International Warlock Convention of 1289.

“What? Oh, grand. Thanks,” he breezed. “Right, I’m off.”

“Before I forget,” Lucius couldn’t speak fast enough; he was fully planning on shredding those yoga pants with his bare hands as soon as he got rid of their son. “Ken and Skipper will move your possessions over later on, Draco. We’ll see you for dinner on Sunday, as usual. But you’ll have to arrive via the main gates, we’ll be changing the wards… for security. I’m sure you understand.”

_And to make sure you stay away and grow the hell up!_

“No problem, yeah,” Draco muttered. “I’m off, don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

Before Lucius could shout out _not_ to come back, his son Disapparated away to Merlin knows what alcohol-selling establishment!

* * *

**Some ridiculous hour the next morning…**

Draco screamed like a girl. The wards around Malfoy Manor wouldn’t let him through when he tried to Apparate in, hurling him unceremoniously against the main entrance gates. As he lay on the gravel — in a heap resembling one of his mother’s yoga poses — a roll of parchment appeared from nowhere and began beating him around the head.

“What the—” he began, swatting the makeshift weapon away, extremely pissed off that the completely oblivious love of his life has chosen to _stay in_ with a very pregnant Ginny Potter whilst Draco had the pleasure of enduring the father-to-be and his endless observations about swollen ankles and lactating breasts.

Eventually, the parchment unfurled in front of Draco’s face as his father’s voice addressed him.

“Son, it seems you are either too drunk to remember the conversation we had earlier, or you’re just drunk. The address of your new home _in Richmond_ is written on this parchment. Just _try_ not to splinch yourself when you Disapparate and, for the love of Merlin, _please_ remember it’s situated in Muggle London. Something called an Information Pack is already in the apartment with all your instructions. Barbie has been assigned as your personal house-elf but, please remember, you’ll need to pay her wages as per Ministry guidelines. Her Gringotts account details are in that pack thing. Your mother and I expect you for dinner on Sunday. Please send your Patronus from the main gate.”

_Bollocks._

Before Draco could maneuver himself into a suitable position from which to attempt standing up, Lucius’ voice interrupted.

“Another thing — your room has already been reassigned, so please don’t think you can run home anytime you like. It’s time you became an adult, Draco. We’ll be opening the Manor as a weekend yoga and well-being retreat in the coming weeks and your room will be the new colonic irrigation suite. Goodnight.”

_Fucking bollocks._

* * *

**Richmond in Muggle London, a little later**

“Master Draco,” Barbie squeaked, pulling at the ends of her starched pink pillowcase. “You musts wake up, Master Draco!”

“Huh?”

“Master Draco! Sir! You musts wake up!”

A long skinny finger poked at Draco’s side, rousing him from his corpse-like state. It took a few moments to figure out he was face down on a… bed? Couch? _Floor?_ His cheek damp and sticky, Draco’s stomach began to roll when he realised he was lying on a wet patch of drool that stank of Firewhisky. And there was something else… something Theo introduced him to… oh, yeah… Sambuca. Lots and lots of flaming Sambuca.

“Ugh… where am I? Where… Ken?”

“No, Master Draco,” the little elf replied, flapping her ears. “I’m Barbie, I’m your new house-elf.”

“Do… do you have to wear such bright… pink?” Draco moaned, peeking out through one half-opened eye. “It hurts!”

“Well, I do has pillowcases in baby pink, watermelon, fuchsia, flamingo, ballet slipper, bubble—”

“Stop! Stop!” Draco pressed his eyes shut and rolled over, landing in another painful heap. Oh, right. Couch so. “What’s that you’re wearing?”

“Hot pink, sir.”

“Burn it.”

“Yes, sir.” The house-elf conjured a flame and pressed it against her pillowcase.

_“What the... FUCK!”_

Draco never moved so fast in his life! Throwing himself on top of the potential elfin birthday candle and patting her down, he rolled them around the floor for good measure — knocking over some of the dining chairs, the coffee table, two bar stools, and a plant — before over-enthusiastically conjuring a syphon of water from his wand that drenched the two of them, and probably killed the plant.

“What. The. Fuck!” He gasped, surprisingly alert. “Barbie, I said burn it, but not while the fucking thing was on you!”

“I is sorry, Master Draco,” Barbie wailed. “When I find the ironing board, I’ll—”

“No, you fucking won’t iron your fingers or any other fucking part of you!” Draco shouted, a vein pulsing at his temple. “You will not self-harm! EVER! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Draco, sir.”

The tears pooling in the little elf’s eyes instantly pulled at Draco’s heart strings.

“Right, well… okay. Eh… coffee. Let’s have coffee. No… eh… you go change into something less bright first. I’ll start tidying.”

Yes, it was highly unusual to associate the word _tidying_ with the likes of Draco Malfoy but he was an expert at manually cleaning up the remains of riotous parties at school and at home, his wand usually found hours later hidden under some witch’s bra, or — in one case — behind the toilet cistern in the Parkinson’s pool house. By the time he was finished, professors and parents alike would have sworn he’d spent the previous evening with his friends cross-stitching or testing each other on their school work.

He could teach Archangel Michael a thing or two about being angelic.

Barbie, however, nearly passed out, sobbing at the thought of her master doing menial work.

The pulsing vein was now throbbing violently.

“Look, Barbie, look,” Draco cooed, “I’m just going to lift up these chairs. See? Just these ones. You can dry everything, okay? And… eh... guess what? Just for you, I’ll walk all that clay into this nice cream rug, alright? Look. The clay’s getting stuck in all the grooves! It’ll take hours to get it out. _Hours!”_

That seemed to appease the little elf and she popped off to her room — a tiny cupboard in the hallway, just across from the downstairs loo — coming back moments later in a baby pink off-the-shoulder pillowcase with matching plastic tiara and stick-on earrings.

Draco went off in search of his blue blanket.

* * *

**The Potter Residence, the same morning**

Hermione walked into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, stretching her lazy limbs, and smiling at the aroma of freshly brewed Arabica beans. She usually spent Friday nights away from Hogwarts, having a few drinks at the Leaky before heading back to her best friends’ home. Last night, however, she decided to forego the alcohol, replacing it with a much-needed gossip session, Yorkshire Tea, and Mother2B’s Swollen Ankle Rub (patent pending).

She was disappointed not to be at the Leaky; _he_ might have been there — the object of her very long-term, completely one-sided, and totally secret crush. He usually turned up on Fridays with his friends, never speaking to her directly but always making a point to glance her way — no doubt to make her uneasy. Just by being in the same room as him, however, gave Hermione the opportunity to stockpile some brand new ‘personal time’ material.

Women don’t _wank._

Alas! Pregnant best friends had to come first.

“Smells gorgeous as usual, Harry,” she sighed, pouring herself some coffee. “How’s Ginny this morning?”

“Huge!” Harry whispered, serving up three plates of scrambled eggs as Hermione began to butter the toast. “I swear she’s swollen even more since yesterday. And she won’t stop—”

“I know!” Hermione interrupted, grinning madly. “She went through two packets of French Fancies, _then_ drank an entire glass of olive oil!”

“Extra virgin?”

“With a dash of soy sauce.”

“Sprinkles?”

“Hundreds and Thousands.”

“That’s my girl.”

The two friends burst into laughter, clutching their sides at the thought of Ginny’s hormonal cravings. It wasn’t long before the object of their mirth waddled into the kitchen and dropped herself onto a chair.

“I fucking hate you two right now,” she moaned, trying to reach for her breakfast but failing miserably due to her massive stomach and short arms. “Skinny fucking bastards!”

That only made Hermione laugh harder but Harry suddenly recalled that a pissed off Ginny Potter could be a potentially dangerous wife of mass destruction.

He couldn’t sit down for a fortnight around the time his fiery witch was four months pregnant, having forgotten to replace the finished toilet roll with a fresh one in the en-suite. And the festering boil on his neck only disappeared the previous week; _that_ injury for not noticing she’d had her eyelashes tinted. In fairness, Harry had only just stepped through the Floo and was mid-sneeze with his eyes tightly shut, but trying to explain only made the boil larger. And more… oozy.

“So… how’s Hogwarts, Hermione?” he asked a little too loudly, kicking her under the table.

“What?” Hermione wiped her eyes, “Oh, sorry, em… it’s fine, Harry, fine. All good.”

Ginny glared from her husband to her best friend. “Just you wait, Hermione Granger. When you’re the size of a Quidditch pitch, I’ll make your fucking life hell!”

“Sorry, Gin,” Hermione gulped.

“Whatever! You—”

A postal service owl tapped at the window, interrupting what was surely about to become a hormonal tirade.

“I’ll get it!” Harry couldn’t jump up from his seat fast enough.

Opening the scroll attached to the bird’s leg, he read out an invitation to Lucius Malfoy’s latest book launch. Ginny was on the publishers’ mailing list, having devoured The Violent Vagina whilst declaring she was fully in sync with her inner ovaries… or something like that.

“I’m not going,” she announced.

“But, Gin—” Harry began, immediately shutting his mouth at the look his wife was sending his way.

“I. Am. Not. Going.” She repeated slowly, stabbing her finger into the table top. “I refuse to wear robes that make me look like Madame Maxime!”

“But—”

Ginny’s wand was now perilously close to Harry’s right eye, his glasses wobbling against the yew.

“Don’t argue with me, Harry James Potter. I will not go and that’s that!” She turned her head slowly, channelling her inner Linda Blair. “ _You_ can go with him instead.”

“What?” Hermione blanched. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, Gin... I’m just... show my face… em… five… minutes...”

She trailed off. Gryffindor or not, nobody argued with Ginny Potter née Weasley. And Hermione liked her face just the way it was.

“We could just go for an hour?” Harry suggested cautiously, eyeing his wife’s wand. “Or two?”

Hermione sighed, accepting defeat. “Fine, Harry. We’ll go.”

* * *

**Inside Ginny Potter’s devious and considerably hormonal mind**

_And Draco Malfoy will be there as well, won’t he? Oh, yes, he will, Hermione Granger. Secret crush, my arse! Think I didn’t notice the names of your charities? I wasn’t born yesterday! I—_

_Fuck, I have to wee._

* * *

**The Virgin’s Vital Stain book launch, Gringotts Bank, the following Thursday**

“Hermione,” Harry moaned, “Can we leave yet?”

“I wish,” she hissed through a plastic smile, “I’ve to get my picture taken with Lucius, then Lucius and Narcissa, followed by Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco. After that, Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and the publishers. They also mentioned Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, the publishers, and some old dear who allowed her womb be photographed for the front cover of the book after her hysterectomy. _Then_ we can go.”

Harry was sure he saw Hermione’s eye twitch.

“I’ll be at the drinks table.”

“Harry… em… Lucius organised this event so all the drinks are juiced organic vegetables from the Manor’s potager.”

_“Are you fucking—”_

“Hermione! Hermione, darling! The photographer wants us!”

“Coming, Narcissa!” Hermione called, turning quickly to her best friend. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Harry. Don’t forget to get a signed copy for Gin, and make a donation, will you? I think Lucius put a curse on the doors that no one can leave until they do.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fiiiine.”

“The… em… T.W.A.T. is probably the nicest juice on the menu. I had to sample them all with Narcissa last week. It’s turnip, wheatgrass, asparagus, and tabasco. Just knock it back and think of England.”

She ran off towards the photographer before he could answer.

“Ah, Hermione, darling! Mwah, mwah,” Lucius drawled, air-kissing her as she approached. “Now, stand beside Draco, just there… perfect. Draco, smile. It won’t kill you. Cissa, dear... you stand… no, here… that’s it. Right, now, we’re… Merlin! Hermione! Please tell me that outfit is rayon, or at least nylon!”

Smiling demurely for the camera, and trying not to panic at being so close to her unrequited love, Hermione prayed that Lucius wouldn’t throw a hissy fit and demand to check the label of her 100% silk dress that she’d paid an absolute fortune for. Why? Because unrequited love will make you do silly things like splurge two weeks wages on a oversized handkerchief in the hopes the object of your affections will notice.

Needless to say, the proverbial blind man on a galloping horse couldn’t have missed just how much Draco _did_ notice Hermione’s dress — the way it highlighted the curve of her breasts and hips, how the underskirt stopped mid-thigh to accentuate her long, slim legs, not to mention how her high-heeled sandals had him almost salivating at the thought of running his tongue along her instep.

As the photographer flashed away, encouraging them to ‘move in a little closer’ and ‘look like you’re all just one big happy family’, Hermione stumbled slightly and fell against Draco. He instantly caught her elbow, holding on as she righted herself. Without thinking, he then moved his hand to the small of Hermione’s back as if to support her.

They both froze, causing readers of the next morning’s Daily Prophet to wonder what could possibly have happened over the photographer’s shoulder to make Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger look like frightened rabbits stuck on the track as the Hogwarts Express hurtled towards them.

* * *

**Richmond; it’s in Muggle London - did you know?**

The following morning, Draco sat at the breakfast bar with Barbie, sipping his morning coffee and staring at the Daily Prophet’s pictures from the book launch. The little elf peered over his shoulder at the images, oohing and aahing at the outfits worn by the guests, and practically salivating at _Miss Granger’s pretty dress._

Draco sighed heavily, remembering the caress of the silk material against his fingers. It felt like home; the same way his blue blanket made him feel.

“ _Pretty_ doesn’t do her justice, Babs,” he sighed, standing up. “Nothing does.”

“Barbie thinks Master Draco really likes Miss Granger.”

“You’ve no idea.” He walked over to the sliding door that led to the balcony, pulling it aside, and stepping out to take a deep breath of fresh air. Leaning against the railing and watching the Muggles below going about their day, he closed his eyes, deep in thought.

Barbie hopped down from her stool and began to dust around the apartment with her fuschia feather duster, with telescopic handle. It was a moving in gift from Draco; he’d bought it on the way to Gringotts the previous evening, having left early for the book launch so he could arrange Barbie’s wages and withdraw some Muggle money to spend.

Conveniently, Gringotts had a small branch in Muggle London disguised as a New Age Feng Shui consultancy and Chinese spa:

Fuk Luk Saunas  
Clearing bad wind since 1972

Having spent an hour in the back of the building, trying to persuade the goblins that he only wanted to carry out some financial transactions and most definitely _did not_ need a free clearing of his… ahem... family area, Draco left Gringotts and headed towards the nearest entry to Wizarding London, window shopping as he walked.

He was almost late for the event due to the many wonders he discovered at Poundland, Barbie’s duster included.

“Master Draco, I is making you some more coffee and the muffinses are just ready,” Barbie called from the kitchen, glittering in her flamingo pink jumpsuit with silver plastic drop earrings — another Poundland bargain. “And your bookses are here.”

“Thanks, Babs,” Draco replied, leaving his thoughts of the previous evening out on the balcony and stepping back inside to collect his new stock of potions books that had magically appeared on the mirrored coffee table, courtesy of Flourish and Blotts’ new express delivery service.

“Barbie thinkses Master Draco should ask Miss Granger outs on a date.”

“Huh, like that would work,” Draco muttered, biting into one of the warm muffins she placed before him. He turned away from the breakfast counter and began to pace across the floor, causing the little elf to squeak out loud and run along beside him, holding a side plate under Draco’s hand to catch rogue crumbs.

“She’s the History of Magic professor,” he continued, “What would she want with me? I’ve got nothing to offer her… except loads of money. No, wait—” he stopped abruptly, causing Barbie to fall over in her haste to keep up with him, “—I don’t even have that! I’ve a… a… _budget_. And the tiniest of hopes of doing something with potions. But now that I’ve been kicked out of the Manor, I don’t even have a fucking lab!”

He continued pacing. Barbie gave up trying to catch crumbs and went off to fluff some cushions.

The pacing continued for another forty minutes, all the muffins were gone, the carpet was littered with crumbs, and Draco was on his sixth coffee, when...

_“BABS!”_

“Yes, Master Draco,” Barbie skipped down the stairs, having just ironed all of her master’s shoelaces and two fingers by accident. “I is here.”

“I have it!” He exclaimed, pointing a slightly shaking finger in the air. “I’ll woo her. There’s a few Ministry functions coming up that I’ll attend, she has to go because of her charity work, and—”

“But, Master Draco, sir…” Barbie hopped from one foot to the other. “Invitationses have already being posted. Ken told me Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa already have their invitationses for weeks and weeks.”

“ _Bollocks!_ Em…” The pacing began again. “Make more muffins, Babs, I need to think.”

The tiny elf pottered off to the kitchen, leaving her master to wear a line in the carpet. It wasn’t long before he let out a shout, causing Barbie to cover herself in batter.

“Fuck the budget, I don’t care how much this costs me! I need parchment and a quill, where do we keep them? What bureau? I’ve a bureau? Where? And where’s my owl?” He paused mid-step. “Do I have an owl? Are the muffins ready?”

An hour later, a rather frazzled Barbie popped back into the living room with five rolls of parchment in her hand.

“They all says yes, Master Draco,” she announced, offering the rolls to her master who waved them off. “With conditions.”

“No problem,” he smiled fondly, “They wouldn’t be Slytherins otherwise. Just sort out whatever they want. Take the Gringotts card; you know what to do.”

“Yes, Master Draco, sir. I is onto it straight away.”

* * *

**Back inside Ginny Potter’s conspiratorial mind as she reads a letter from Pansy Parkinson**

_Merlin, I’m sick of going to the loo._

_So, Draco Malfoy will accompany Pansy, Daphne, Astoria, Tracey, and Milly to each of the Ministry functions… hmm… I wonder why? He never turns up at anything run by the… wait a minute… where’s the Prophet? Well… Miss Hermione Granger, it’s looks like someone else has a secret crush, doesn’t it? Oh, yes, it does. Mwahaha! I’d better contact the girls…_

_Shit, I’ve got to wee again._

Yes, she really did mwahaha in her head.

* * *

**A few hours later**

“Gin, Gin, shh, it’s alright,” Hermione cooed, her arms wrapped awkwardly around her completely distraught and very pregnant friend. “Don’t cry, please. Shh, don’t cry. Of course, I’ll attend with Harry; I have to go anyway because of my charity work. You can’t be stressing yourself at this stage; you need to relax and take it easy. And you’re not fat, alright?”

_Mwahaha!_

* * *

**You are cordially invited to the first Ministry function… (February)**

“... by then the company employed around 500 people, but they didn’t just produce eggs—” Pansy took a moment to sip her cocktail, her eyes sparkling as she gushed over the gift (read: bribe) Draco had so graciously bestowed on her “—no, no, they were producing countless _objets_ and pieces of jewellery for the world’s richest — all Muggle, mind you, Draco. _Then_ they began to design a range specifically for the Wizarding elite and that’s where Grandmother Parkinson came across them, see? But there was some kind of revolution and it all went horribly wrong. Would you believe, Draco, Fabergé ended up owned by a company that sells Muggle cleaning products! Like… like… _bleach!_ It’s appalling! It’s… what? Oh, yes, please, I’ll have another.”

Draco blinked furiously as he made his way across the Ministry atrium to the pop-up bar, swearing he’d aged twenty years listening to Pansy go on and on about the Easter egg he’d apparently bought her. He honestly had no idea what she was talking about, having tuned out to fantasise about Hermione rushing into his arms as soon as she’d arrive. Although… getting _that_ excited over a bit of chocolate? Was there even a chocolatier called Fabergé? Probably; the name was poncy enough.

He’d no more time to dwell on his purchase as the nearest whooshing Floo loudly announced the arrival of Head Auror, Harry Potter, and his lovely companion, Professor Hermione Granger.

Draco kept his head forward, only peeking out the corner of his eye, not wanting to make it obvious that he was looking at her. But one glance ruined him.

Her dress was stunning in its simplicity — a Princess V-neck bodice with shoelace straps and floor-length flared skirt, the deep scarlet colour highlighting her smooth, creamy skin which sparkled with flecks of pixie dust. She wore her hair down, letting it bounce around her bared shoulders as she walked beside Harry. But Draco, however, was instantly drawn to the deep plunge of the neckline, yearning to trail his fingers along the dip between her breasts.

He stifled a groan, dragged back to reality by a manicured finger tapping his chin.

“Stop drooling, Draco,” Pansy drawled, “It’s unbecoming.”

“Pans—” he stuttered, “She’s… I…”

“Ask her to dance.”

“What? No! I—”

“They’re on their way over, Draco. Ask. Her. To. Dance.”

He didn’t get the opportunity to reply. Harry and Hermione arrived at the bar, ordering their drinks before turning to Pansy and a rather ill-looking Draco.

Pansy made a show of air kissing them both and asking after Ginny, which opened the door for Harry to begin an endless monologue about the dark blue veins on his wife’s skin that made her boobs look like a map of Leighton Buzzard.

Whilst Pansy played the part of the captive audience, Draco and Hermione were left to stare at their feet. Eventually, Gryffindor courage prevailed.

“Was your father pleased with the book launch, Malfoy?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Sorry, yes. Yes, he was. Thank you for asking. Excuse me, I must…”

He ran.

* * *

**Richmond in Muggle London, 105 miles from Malfoy Manor**

“I should’ve been in fucking Hufflepuff!” Draco wailed into his blue blanket as Barbie patted his knee.

* * *

**You are most welcome to the Ministry’s second function… (March)**

“Daphne, your jewellery is divine!” Astoria couldn’t take her eyes of her sister’s bracelet and matching earrings. “Did Draco buy them?” She added, lowering her voice.

“He did,” Daphne grinned. “They’re from Cartier’s Juste Un Clou range. I’ve had my eye on them for ages! Shh, here he comes.”

Both girls thanked Draco for getting their drinks, watching him closely as his eyes darted around the atrium.

“Are you looking for someone, Draco?” Daphne enquired, following Draco’s eye as he watched Hermione dance with Cormac McLaggen, the wine glass in his hand dissolving into tiny pieces as his knuckles whitened with frustration.

“I was just admiring Daphne’s new jewellery, Draco,” Astoria interrupted, retrieving her wand to heal his cut skin. “You have lovely taste.”

“They look like fucking nails,” he spat, wincing with pain.

“Draco,” Daphne began, placing her hand delicately on his shoulder. “The dance is nearly finished, go over to her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just… _bollocks!_ She’s coming over here; why is she coming over here?!

“Maybe it’s because we’re all friends, Draco. There’s no harm in talking to her,” Astoria replied. “Harry! I didn’t see you there! How’s Ginny?”

Astoria was sorry she’d asked; Harry described Blue Vagina… in detail.

This time Hermione sparkled in midnight blue; her lace and chiffon dress, decorated with beadings and rhinestones, caught the light as she approached the group. Her hair was drawn back in a loose chignon, allowing the bateau neckline to highlight her swan-like neck that practically begged for Draco’s tongue.

“Good evening, everyone,” she smiled at each of them, her cheeks reddening a little when she caught Draco’s eye. “Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

“We were just saying how stunning you look, Hermione,” Daphne commented, raising her glass. “Doesn’t she, Draco?”

“Youlookahemveryehnice,” he muttered into the top of his repaired wine glass, grabbing another from a passing elf.

“Thank you, I think,” Hermione replied, not sure what to make of his reply. “Goodness, Daphne, are they from Cartier’s Juste Un Clou range?”

As the girls continued to gush over the jewellery, Harry leaned across to Draco.

“Is it just me, or do they look like nails?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You, too?”

“You know, Malfoy, you could just ask her to dance.”

“Eh… toilet…”

* * *

**Richmond in Muggle London, still not far enough from Malfoy Manor (according to Lucius)**

“Even Potter knows! I’m fucking doomed! Why haven’t I got the balls to ask her out, Babs? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with yous, Master Draco,” Barbie answered, fluffing up the cushion he’d just battered his head into and handing him his blue blanket.

“Babs? Can you make me some muffins?”

“Of courses.”

* * *

**The Venice Grand Suite of the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express London-Venice route, somewhere in Kent (May)**

“Unlimited Champagne?” Tracey’s eyes were like saucers, ironic considering what she was drinking.

“And our choice of dining car and sitting times, unless you'd like to avail of the in-suite dining option,” Astoria replied, reading Belmond’s welcoming brochure. “By the way, did you know, the grandeur of the Venice Grand Suite is interwoven with silk fabrics and hues of silver and grey, whilst hand-crafted Venetian glass adorns the baroque style furnishings?”

“I do now,” Tracey acknowledged, routing through her vanity case for some hand cream. “Where are we staying when we get to Venice?”

“Five glorious nights in the Turchese Suite at the Villa F hotel,” her travelling companion sighed contentedly, falling back onto the luxurious bed linen. “By the way, I love the colour you chose for your set of luggage. I should have picked the burgundy.”

“Why don’t we swap? I prefer your rose gold anyway.”

“Deal.” Astoria sat up again, “Trace, did Draco go anywhere near Hermione at the Ministry luncheon?”

“He said hello, asked her how her cat was, and ran out of the restaurant faster than you can say our porter is hot!”

“Isn’t he! The same thing happened with the Ministry’s annual fashion show; Draco enquired how she was liking her job at Hogwarts, then made his excuses and left. At this rate, someone else will sweep her off her feet and where will that leave Draco?”

“Crying into his blue blanket, that’s where!” Tracey laughed.

“Merlin! Does he still have that thing?”

“He does! Only don’t tell anyone I told you. Barbie let it slip to our house-elf, Stacie, who’s a huge gossip! I had to warn her I’d give her clothes if she repeated it!”

“But all this expense just to accompany us to events where the only thing he does is mumble a few words at Hermione, then run out the door!”

“And he’s only got one more Ministry function before the summer break; he’s going with Milly to that one. Hopefully, he’ll grow a pair by then. You know, Tori, we really could help more — maybe encourage Hermione to approach him. Ginny said she’s as love sick as he is.”

“We could, Trace, but that would be far too Gryffindor for my liking — all that interfering and talking about feelings. I rather sit on the sidelines, drop a few comments, and enjoy the train wreck that is Draco Malfoy trying to ask Hermione Granger out. Now, where’s the Champagne?”

* * *

**A few hours before the final Ministry function, Horace Slughorn’s living room (early June)**

“Draco, my boy,” the retired professor sighed dramatically, attempting to cross his arms over his obese frame, “It’s not easy to come by, you know.”

“But you have some,” Draco pressed, “It’s something you’d always have around. Especially this time of the year when the thestral racing is on? Win much at the bookies, _professor_ , hmm?”

Slughorn sat up a little straighter. “Now, now,” he replied, his upper lip glistening. How the fat fucker ever ended up in Slytherin was beyond Draco, he was as transparent as a fucking invisibility cloak! “Everyone knows the use of enhanced potions is illegal, Draco.”

“For the thestrals, yes. But what would everyone think if they found out your endless streak of good luck is down to Felix Felicis? Isn’t that illegal, too?”

It was common knowledge nobody could brew Felix Felicis as well as Horace Slughorn.

He narrowed his bushy eyebrows. “You wouldn’t say a word,” he whispered, his voice wobbling slightly.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“What do you want?”

“One bottle. That’s all I’m asking,” Draco replied. “And you have my word, anything discussed here, remains here.”

His old professor hoisted himself out of the oversized armchair and retrieved a small wooden box from the mantlepiece. Taking out a small vial, the colour of molten gold, he slowly turned back to his former pupil.

“You should wrap this in your blue blanket to keep it safe, Draco.”

_“What?”_

“Still sleeping with your blue blanket? The one you had since you were… let me see… five? Six? Imagine the headline… let me see… Malfoy Playboy’s Cuddly Toy? Snakes in a Blanket? You’d be quite the laughing stock, wouldn’t you?”

So that’s why the fat fucker was in Slytherin. Sly cunt.

_“How much?”_ Draco spat through gritted teeth.

“Pardon me?” Slughorn’s innocent expression could have made altar boys weep.

“I said, _how much?_ How much for the Felix? And for both of us to remain quiet about what has been… _revealed_ here?”

“Well, I—”

Draco sprang to his feet, wand raised. “HOW FUCKING MUCH?”

“Twenty thousand pounds Sterling. I owe it to a Muggle bookie.”

“You’ll have the cash by the end of the day. My house-elf will deliver it.”

Nodding once, Slughorn handed over the vial and watch Draco Disapparate from his living room.

“Stupid boy,” he remarked, tapping his fat fingers together. “A debt cleared for a vial of coloured water. Well done, Sluggy, old chap. Well done.”

Horace Slughorn. Slytherin.

* * *

**Thank you for attending the final Ministry function prior to the summer break (late June)**

“Senior Assistant to the Head of the Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes, and Hexes, Miss Millicent Bulstrode, and her companion for the evening, Mister Draco Malfoy.”

The Floo boomed out their names as Milly and Draco stepped out of the fireplace, dusting themselves down, then heading straight for the bar.

“Honestly, Draco,” she muttered, wiping her nose in her sleeve, “you didn’t have to buy me anything. I was happy to let you come with me.”

“Nonsense,” he declared, a grin permanently fixed across his face. “It’s only something small. I bought the others presents as thanks-yous — Pans got an Easter egg, Daph picked some gaudy cheap jewellery that looks like nails, Tori and Trace picked handbags I think, and… what was it? Oh, yeah, train tickets to somewhere. Honestly, Mills, it’s nothing… what did I get you again?”

“A dozen cans of Tailgate Peanut Butter Milk Stout.”

“Brilliant! Whatever it is, I hope you like it.”

“Well, thanks anyway, Draco. Pint?”

It wasn’t long before Harry turned up with Hermione in tow. As this was a less formal event, she opted for a lemon fit-and-flare dress with tie belt and full skirt. She looked radiant; the recent hot weather doing wonders for her tanned skin.

Draco practically skipped across the atrium, his fingers tingling at the thoughts of having the beautiful witch in his arms by nightfall, that tie belt coming apart with his teeth.

“Harry! How are you, mate? And Hermione, can I call you Hermione? Would you like to dance, Hermione?”

The Boy-Who-Was-In-The-Middle-Of-Discussing-Ginny’s-Pregnancy-Hernia was taken aback by Draco’s over-friendly behaviour but shook the enthusiastically proffered hand before launching into an explanation about how tired he was, having not slept so well due to Ginny’s excessive farting.

Draco’s eyes glazed over. Turning to Hermione, he asked her again to dance.

“Eh, Malfoy,” she began, worrying her lower lip. _Fuck!_ He wanted to lick it so badly! “This isn’t a formal event, there’s no dancing.”

“What! Don’t be ridiculous! Of course there is!”

With that, Draco turned around to see the area previously reserved as a dance floor covered with banqueting tables and chairs.

_Bollocks!_

“Not too worry!” He announced, spinning around to face her. “Let’s have a drink. What would you like? Harry, have a drink!”

“I’ll have a Pinot Grigio, please,” she replied, frowning. Draco Malfoy was never this friendly.

“Great! Harry?”

“I’ll have… well, I don’t know if I should drink with Ginny so close to her due date… maybe just one. What are you drinking, Malfoy?”

“Pints.”

“Pints of what?”

“Haven’t a fucking clue but they’re fucking gorgeous!”

“Draco,” Hermione asked slowly, “How many have you had?”

“Five.”

The event dragged on. Draco and Harry bonded over pints of whatever they were drinking and Hermione spent the time chatting with Milly, getting to know the rather butch-looking Slytherin rather well. Who knew she was a huge fan of Hello Kitty?

An emergency in her department meant Milly had to leave the event early, then Harry decided to head for home as he was too concerned about how low Ginny’s belly was looking that morning and he hadn’t practised his breathing techniques.

That left a rather sober Hermione with a very drunk Draco.

Sighing loudly, she stood up and walked around to his side of the banqueting table.

“Come on, Malfoy.” She lifted up his head from its pillow, i.e. the plastic tablecloth — the formal events got material ones — and conjured a large glass of water for him. “Let’s get you home.”

“Hair-my-oh-knee,” he slurred, “Such a looovely name.”

She smiled, trying to keep in the laughter. “Thank you. Draco is quite becoming as well.”

Once he was upright, she waited until he drank the water and helped him stand up. He wrapped his arm around Hermione’s shoulder, smelling her hair as he leaned on her for support.

“Looove your hair, hair-my-oh-knee, hahahahaha.”

“Hilarious,” she replied, trying not to think that the man she was secretly in love with for ages had his arm around her and was smelling her hair. “Come on, the Floos are this way.”

“Too… too drunk… can’t Floo.”

“Em… I could… I could bring you?” Hermione was trying to keep her voice steady but his scent was intoxicating and his embrace was everything she’d ever hoped for, despite the fact he was already a couple of chapters into the novel, as they say.

“Hmm…” Draco brought his other arm around to hold her close, his body flush with hers. “Bring me home, Hair-my-oh-knee. Stay with meeeeee…”

They were now standing at the farthest Floo from the atrium, away from prying eyes and gossiping lips. Draco had her backed up against the emerald green tiles, his lips tantalizingly close to Hermione’s ear as she held him up.

“Bring… you home... make… love…”

Suddenly Draco’s stunningly beautiful grey eyes were replaced by the panicked eyes of a ghostly white stag.

“HERMIONE! GINNY’S IN LABOUR! WE’RE AT ST MUNGO’S!”

Draco found himself falling face first against the cold tiles as Hermione ducked out from under his arm and dived into the Floo.

* * *

**The following morning in Richmond, aka Hangover Central**

“I’m a fucking failure,” Draco wailed into a previously fluffed-up cushion, now flattened by his pounding head. He was wrapped in his blue blanket and nibbling on his seventh or eighth muffin. “Even the Felix didn’t work. How much of a fucking failure do I have to be for that not to work!”

“That’s because it’s nots Felix Felicis, Master Draco,” Barbie answered, frantically stirring another bowl of muffin mix. “Ken looks at it this morning; Ken thinks it’s Gillywater with the… em… the… sp… sp…”

Draco sat up abruptly. “The what, Babs?”

The little elf put down the bowl and began hopping from one foot to the other, her batwing ears flapping wildly.

“The sp… sp… I can’t says it!”

“Babs, I love you. But, right now, I’m ordering you to tell me… what is in the vial?”

“Em… Gillywater… and… and… thespermofaunicorn.”

She pulled her ears down over her eyes and ran back into the kitchen, knocking over a bar stool on her way.

“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?” Draco roared, spitting muffin crumbs all over his blue blanket. “I DRANK UNICORN JIZZ?”

“Y-yes,” came the tiny squeak from the kitchen.

“Oh, fuck, I’m going to be sick.”

Just as Draco began to dry retch all over his blue blanket, the Floo announced an incoming call from Gringotts.

Barbie trotted over to the fireplace, shoving a bucket under Draco as she passed. After a few minutes chatting with the caller, she returned to her master who was back under his blue blanket, feeling green.

“Master Draco,” she whispered, “One of those nasty goblinses wants to visit you. He says it’s really, really, serious.”

Draco closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Tell the fucker to wait ten minutes. I need a Hangover Cure, Pepper-Up Potion, and a fucking bucket load of muffins.”

He dragged his sorry arse towards the staircase, trailing his blue blanket behind him, as Barbie went back to her mixing bowl.

Exactly ten minutes later, the Gringotts representative — who introduced himself as Drittsekk — popped through the Floo with a small briefcase tucked under his arm.

“Mister Malfoy,” he began, “We have some serious issues to discuss regarding your bank account.”

Draco continued chewing as he eyed the slimy creature in distaste. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“On the contrary, Mister Malfoy. By usual Malfoy standards, it’s practically empty.”

Draco paused mid-chew. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s practically empty,” Drittsekk repeated. “Your spending habits are getting out of hand, especially recently.”

“What? I bought a few small gifts for my friends. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, sir, I know the Malfoy fortune is vast but surely even you would agree these gifts have been rather extravagant.”

“A few train tickets and an Easter egg? Oh, a few bottles—”

“Sir, please be serious! Look at this!”

Drittsekk hopped off the armchair and rummaged through his briefcase, presenting Draco with a bank statement.

“Due to your transactions being mostly carried out in Muggle currency, Mister Malfoy, the statement is presented accordingly,” he added, condescendingly.

_VAULT 050680 - DRACO L. MALFOY_

_Opening balance: £3,000,000.00_  
_Property purchase: £1,550,000.00_  
_House-elf wages_  
_\- £500 x 26 weeks: £13,000.00_  
_Imperial Fabergé egg: £1,000,000.00_  
_Cartier jewellery: £307,200.00_  
_Venice Simplon Orient_  
_\- Express tickets (return): £20,570.00_  
_Villa F hotel, Venice: £12,000.00_  
_Cash - A. Greengrass: £10,000.00_  
_Cash - T. Davis: £10,000.00_  
_Globe-Trotter luggage: £8,015.00_  
_Globe-Trotter luggage: £7,790.00_  
_Cash - H. Slughorn: £20,000.00_  
_Oddbins Off-Licence: £33.60_  
_Household expenses_  
_\- £100 x 26 weeks: £2,600.00_  
_Gringotts annual fee: £5,000.00_

_Closing balance: £33,791.40_

“I think, Mister Malfoy, sir,” Drittsekk commented, approaching Draco warily as the young wizard’s eyes kept widening with shock, “They were not any old train tickets and an Easter egg.”

“You don’t fucking say! Nevermind the ridiculously exorbitant fee you charge,” Draco snapped, furious at the amount of money he’d spent over the past few months. “With the exception of this property and my house-elf’s wages, I’ve spent… hold on… almost three hundred thousand Galleons _trying_ to woo Hermione Granger… and fucking failed!”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Mister Malfoy. You’ve practically emptied your bank account. I have strict instructions from your parents not to forward another knut to your account! At this rate, you don’t have enough money to see you through to the end of the year, sir. And there’s also the matter of your house-elf’s wages—”

“There’s nothing wrong with the amount I give Barbie… is there?” Draco narrowed his eyes at the goblin. Although, if he wasn’t paying Babs enough, he’d rectify that immediately. _Merlin_ , what if he wasn’t paying her the going rate and she was too embarrassed to say!

“Barbie! Can you come here for a sec? Oh, there you are, good. Now, firstly, are the muffins ready?”

“Just coming out of the ovenses, Master Draco.”

“Did I tell you I love you? Right, do I pay you enough wages?”

“Well, Master Draco, I’s… I…” Barbie’s little cheeks went as pink as her dress, a rather deep magenta.

“What do you do with your money, Babs? I’m not being nosey, I just want to know if I pay you enough.”

“I… keep one pound for myself. I know it’s a lot, Master Draco, sir. I’ll pay it—”

“But what do you do with the rest?” Drittsekk interjected. “You’re paid five hundred pounds, that’s just over one hundred Galleons.”

“I donates them to Miss Granger’s charities; the I.H.E.A.R.T. and D.R.A.C.O.M.”

Even Draco Malfoy with a hangover wasn’t that slow.

“Drittsekk, perhaps you’d leave us now, please. I’ll have a think about my account and arrange a meeting with you in due course.”

The apartment was deathly quiet following the goblin’s departure. Barbie left to spend the afternoon having tea with Ken, Skipper, and Stacie at Malfoy Manor. Draco paced another path into the carpet and left muffin crumbs all along the floor.

* * *

**A few hours later in Draco’s bedroom (where we all wish we were… go on, admit it!)**

“Are you packed, Babs?”

“Yes, Master Draco, sir,” the little elf called out, “But I don’t understands why you’re taking me to Hogwarts. Are… are you leaving me there?”

Draco stuck his head out of his bedroom door, just in time to see a large tear splash onto the wooden floor at Barbie’s feet. Dashing down the stairs, he sat on the last step and pulled her into an embrace.

“Shh, we’re going together,” he explained, “I’m not leaving you anywhere. We’re a team, you and I. Team… Team… Blue Muffin! That’s it!”

He gently pushed her away and attempted a little air punch between the two of them.

“Go Muffins! Go Muffins!”

Barbie let out a loud hiccough and wiped her eyes.

“You really is the bestest, Master Draco,” she replied.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he commented, looking a bit sheepish. “My head was so full of Hermione Granger, I nearly bankrupted us. At least we have our home, right? It’ll still be here for us, and you can bring your friends from Hogwarts to visit anytime.”

Barbie’s heart swelled as she listened to Draco describe the apartment as their home.

“Okay,” she smiled, “But _why_ is we going to Hogwarts?”

“Well,” Draco began, standing up, “I need a job. It’s the only way I can manage to keep this place. I can’t go back to the Manor; they’re washing out arseholes in my old room. But, maybe — _maybe_ — this way I can earn a little more respect from Hermione. I’m sure she thinks I’m either ignorant, or a drunk. Probably both. And, now that I think she might just like me back a little, I’m going all out to win her.”

He made his way upstairs to continue packing, motioning for Barbie to follow him.

“I called Dumbledore earlier and asked him for a job. Turns out there’s an immediate vacancy so I jumped at it. I know it’s not Potions but I’ll take whatever it is. Unfortunately, he told me Hermione has gone to Norway for the summer to study some rare texts so I won’t get another chance to see her until she gets back. But, in the meantime, I can catch up on whatever course work I’ll be teaching, make a good impression, and — hopefully — make her see me in a decent light come September. What do you think?”

Barbie reached up to pat Draco’s hand.

“I think you is the bestest Master ever, Master Draco, and Miss Granger will be the luckiest witch in the world to have you.”

Draco blinked a few times before nodding his thanks, not trusting his voice just then.

* * *

**Next morning, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

“I’m delighted you could join the team, as they say, Mister Malfoy,” Professor Dumbledore commented, accompanying Draco along the corridor. They’d just spent a rather enjoyable hour in the Headmaster’s office, drinking tea and catching up. “You’ll be a great asset to Hogwarts.”

“I really appreciate the sentiment, Professor,” Draco replied cordially. “I assure you I will educate the students to the best of my ability at all times.”

“Well, some of them certainly do need guidance, they can get quite unruly. I believe in treating them with a firm hand, you understand. And I do think Hogwarts could do with a good… _spring clean_ as the Muggles say.”

“Surely you don’t mean expelling some of the students, sir!”

“Not the students! Oh, no! Just a… a… breath of fresh air. Wipe away the cobwebs, so to speak. You know what I mean, Mister Malfoy, _new broom_ and all that.”

Draco nodded, not really having a clue what the eccentric wizard meant.

“Well, then,” Dumbledore announced, “Let’s get you settled into your new office.”

“Thank you, sir,” Draco replied, “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, son. Now, here we are… room 234.”

“But… but…”

“Yes?”

“This is _Filch’s_ office.”

“And Argus recently retired, Draco. The immediate vacancy referred to the caretaker’s position. Didn’t you know?”

Draco couldn’t form words, his impression of a shocked goldfish being quite accurate.

“Hmm, I must have forgotten to mention it. Sorry about that,” Dumbledore added, “Ah, well. I’m sure you’ll learn the ropes soon enough. Just remember, Argus was not — shall we say — magically inclined. I’d like the caretaker’s position to remain that way in honour of him.”

“But… but… sir…”

“Now, now,” the two-faced, arse-poking, bent son of a motherfucking cunt — according to Draco in that moment — replied, “I’m sure if you want to keep your bank account healthy and your plans to woo Professor Granger alight, you'll swallow your pride and learn some humility, yes?”

Goldfish.

“Who do you think suggested Severus learn Legilimency, hmm?” The old man winked before turning away, sniffing the air. “Ah, lemon meringue pie. I love Tuesdays. See you at dinner.”

Draco remained rooted to the spot, the key to Filch’s _cupboard_ in his hand.

“Oh, one more thing, Draco. Two-faced is a bit harsh.”

_Bollocks._

* * *

**Two months later**

Draco dragged himself out of bed, every muscle in his body screaming in agony due to his manual polishing of the Quidditch hoops the previous day. His thighs were burning from being wrapped around the poles as he struggled to keep himself from falling.

“Master Draco, sir,” Barbie popped into the room, “I shines Mister Filch’s manacles and chains, look!”

“They’re lovely, Babs,” Draco moaned, “Just hang them back up beside his gimp mask and we’re all done.”

“What’s are we going to do today, sir?”

“Well,” he began, pulling on his old jeans that were practically standing up by themselves with dirt, “I’m going home. _We’re_ going home. I’m handing in our notice, Babs. I can’t do this any longer. We’ve enough money saved to make it to Christmas. The new term starts in a week so Dumbledore will have time to get someone else. I just want… I just want to go home.”

“What’s about Miss Granger?”

“She’ll be back for the 1st of September so I’ll write to her and ask her to meet me in Hogsmeade for coffee some Saturday. If she really likes me, she'll agree. And I'll do my best to win her heart, I _really_ will.”

Barbie’s big eyes teared up. “I likes you, Master Draco. I—”

She burst into sobs, dashing over and wrapping herself tightly around Draco’s leg. He winced in pain as she squeezed him but he slowly bent to hug her back.

“I love you too, Babs.”

“We’ll get Miss Granger to really likes you, sir. Barbie promises.”

An hour later, Draco and Barbie had everything packed and their letter of resignation shoved under Dumbledore’s door — the two-faced, arse-poking, bent son of a motherfucking cunt was apparently in Uzbekistan, visiting a friend whom Draco overheard was called Gaylord Dallas.

Hmm…

The pair walked hand in hand down to the gates of the school — slowly, as Draco’s back was in tatters — and Barbie promised she’d make muffins as soon as they arrived home.

The beginning of the week went by in a haze of muscle-relaxing bliss as Draco spent most of it in the bath — taking two days alone to get the smell of owl shit out of his hair — or in bed, passed out whilst wrapped in his blue blanket. His waking moments were spent plotting how to endear himself to Hermione but exhaustion clouded his usually optimistic demeanour and, as the days went on, he began to come to the conclusion that he just wasn’t good enough for her.

* * *

**The Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1st September**

Dumbledore eyed the cuckoo clock on the wall, hanging between Phineas Nigellus Black and Dilys Derwent.

“So, what do you all think?” He addressed the half-awake portraits with a smile.

“Albus,” Dilys moaned, “It’s too early! Ask me again in an hour.”

“The train leaves in _two_ hours, Dil. My letter needs to be delivered promptly.”

“Well,” Everard rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly, “the lad was always exceptional when it came to the subject. I say yes.”

“Phineas?”

“He has more of my traits than that blond imbecile of a father in him. _And_ he’s proved his mettle over the past few months; that Malfoy pride has been knocked out of him now that he appreciates humility a little better. I must say, watching him from my other portrait as he cleaned that statue of Lachlan the Lanky with a toothbrush was highly entertaining. Did the lad good to do some manual work! I agree too.”

“Didn’t you have a house-elf who wiped your arse for you, Phineas?” Dilys piped up.

If looks could kill, Dilys Derwent would… still be a portrait.

“He’s grown up a lot over the past two months,” Armando Dippet commented, “I say yes.”

Dumbledore asked the rest of them around the room for their opinions, from Ambrose Swott to Walter Aragon. They all agreed wholeheartedly, including Severus Snape who reluctantly acknowledged there was no one better to take over the role.

* * *

**Richmond in Muggle London, which is basically a trillion miles away from Hermione Granger once she returns to Hogwarts in one hour and forty eight minutes**

“Master Draco, sir!”

“Go away! Unless you’ve got muffins!”

“Master Draco, a letter has come through the Floo from Professor Dumblydores.”

“Burn it! I’m not going back!”

“But, sir, it’s addressed to _Professor_ Malfoy.”

Draco’s head peeked out from underneath his blue blanket. _“What?”_

“It’s addressed to Professor Malfoy. Look! Sees?”

He took the proffered letter and practically shredded the envelope in his haste to open it.

_Dear Draco_

_I’m sure this two-faced, arse-poking, bent son of a motherfucking cunt is the last wizard you’d like to hear from._

_A teaching position — which I admit was vacant at the time you originally contacted me — is available now at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_I felt, however, having studied your thoughts whilst we were initially chatting, that you needed a lesson of sorts to help you become the young man I think Miss Granger would be honoured to know. As I’m sure you’re aware, we are all rather fond of our Brightest Witch and consider her family here at the school. I honestly expected you to turn on your heel when I handed you the keys to Argus’ old office, but I found myself immensely proud of the way you dug those heels in instead and made a jolly good fist of your caretaking duties._

_The previous heads and I have discussed the matter in depth, and we cannot think of a more suitable candidate for the post of Divination Professor._

_Your presence on the Hogwarts Express at 11am will confirm your appointment._

_I look forward to seeing you at dinner — it’s crème brûlée for dessert._

_Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore_  
_Headmaster_  
_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Draco stared at the letter, his stomach somewhere around the floor. _Divination Professor!_ All that shite about tea leaves and reading the future through the medium of rats’ intestines and orange juice. No fucking way! Who did the fucking bollocks think he—

Hermione.

He’d be near Hermione.

He’d be in the same building at Hermione.

He could sit at the same table as Hermione at dinner.

He could—

He could—

“BABS! Start packing! We’re going back to Hogwarts!”

“You has a teaching job?”

“I do! Em… Divination.”

Barbie stared blankly at her master, not sure how exactly to look enthusiastic.

“Look, Babs,” he sighed, “It’s not ideal. It’s fucking awful. I’m going to teach mini Lavender Browns and read bollocks like… like… _Omens, Oracles & the Goat_ by Bathilda Bagshot. But I’ll bloody do it to win her heart. Okay? We’re doing this for Hermione.”

“For Miss Granger,” she agreed, nodding her head.

Another letter flew out of the Floo, landing on the couch just beside Draco’s blue blanket.

_Draco_

_Aren’t I a silly moo? As well as a two-faced, arse-poking, bent son of a motherfucking cunt, and apparently a fucking bollocks._

_Not to worry, I’ve been called worse._

_In error, I offered you the wrong position. The Divination Professor’s post is being filled by your old classmate, Lavender Brown._

_I should have stated we would like you to assume the role of Potions Professor, a title I’m sure you'll be more comfortable with._

_See you tonight._

_Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore_  
_Headmaster_  
_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

* * *

**En-route to King’s Cross Station**

“Hello, Mister Malfoy!” Tom the barman smiled as Draco practically rolled out of the Floo in the style of a movie stuntman, Barbie hot on his heels. “We don’t usually—”

“SorryTomcan’tstophavetogettoKing'sCross!”

He was halfway out the door to Charing Cross Road when Barbie called him back.

“Sir, I can’t gos with you outside!”

“Shit! I forgot!” Draco spun around to face her, “Will you Apparate ahead? I need to get to the train.”

“I’ll go and buys us boxes and boxes of muffin mixes. The luggage is all in my handbag, see? I’ll meets you and Miss Granger later on, sir.”

She opened her bubble-gum pink plastic clutch to show him the trunks and brooms down at the bottom, beside her lipsticks and mixing bowl.

“Perfect! I’ll see you tonight. Fingers crossed for me, Babs.”

“She’ll really likes you, sir. I promise. Oh, Master Draco! Do you knows the way?”

“My wand will tug me in the right direction, I hope.”

Barbie nodded and popped out of sight, leaving Draco taking an eye-blinking moment to appreciate his little elf.

After the brief emotional moment, he stepped out onto Charing Cross Road, allowing the worn Muggle door of the Leaky Cauldron to close behind him and, taking a deep breath, took off.

Draco ran like a man possessed, feeling the wand in his jacket pocket move right and left or pull forward at the appropriate junctions. He ran from Charing Cross Road onto Shaftesbury Avenue, almost knocking down some wannabe actor being interviewed outside one of the many theatres, overhearing the words _naked_ and _horse_ as he headed left onto Bloomsbury Street. By the time he’d cleared Great Russell Street and Montague Street, Draco was _really_ beginning to regret all those muffins.

He vaulted over two prams crossing Russell Square, running as if a squee of fangirls were hot on his tail. Weaving through side streets — his wand constantly moving — he skidded to a halt beside a couple of Muggle tourists on Hunter Street to check the time but he couldn’t understand Chinese. He tried another woman struggling with shopping bags at the junction of Judd Street and Euston Road, but Urdu wasn’t his strong point either.

Just as he arrived at King’s Cross — panting for dear life — Draco spotted a young boy carrying what looked like the shape of a bird cage covered in a dark cloth with an older gentleman beside him, pulling a large trunk.

Draco figured the chances of the pair heading for Platform 9¾ were fairly good so he caught up, slowing to a stroll as he neared them. He could hear the familiar hooting of an owl underneath the cage’s cover and almost wept with relief.

He was definitely cutting down on Barbie’s muffins.

Arriving at the station, he overheard them catching a porter’s attention.

“Excuse me!” The gentleman called out, “We’re trying to find Platform Nine and Three—”

“There you are!” Draco exclaimed, grabbing the astonished man by the arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Draco practically dragged him away from the porter, leaving the young boy momentarily terrified as he ran after them.

“What the…”

“I’m sorry,” Draco tried to explain, suddenly realising he was pouring with sweat and looking completely un-Malfoy-like. “You’re a Muggle, right?”

The man was stunned. “You… you know?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, “I do. I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m the new Potions Professor at Hogwarts.”

He proffered his hand to the Muggle, not giving his action a second thought.

The man shook Draco’s hand immediately, not realising the significance of his actions either.

“Donald Hunter. This is my son, Conor.”

Draco shook the young boy’s hand, smiling warmly at his nervous expression.

“Sorry for dragging your father off like that, Muggles don’t tend to understand us wizards very well.”

“My wife and I are Muggles,” Donald explained. “Since Conor hasn’t grown up in… in your world, will he be alright at Hogwarts?”

“I’ll personally make sure he’s welcomed and taken care of,” Draco promised, his heart twinging slightly. Things could have been so much different if he hadn’t been such an arsehole as a child. “In fact,” he added, looking down at Conor, “The Brightest Witch of Our Age will be on the train this morning, she’ll be your History of Magic teacher. She’s a Muggleborn too, and the most wonderful person I know.”

Donald smiled at Draco’s slightly pink cheeks.

“We’d better get you to the train, Conor,” he announced, looking at his watch, “We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” Draco replied, “This way.”

On the platform, he bade goodbye to Donald and Conor and began to look around for that unmistakable head of hair. He weaved in and out of hugging families and excited students, forgetting that he looked a complete mess due to twenty minutes of running flat out. Maybe Barbie could use less sugar?

As the whistle sounded, Draco jumped on board the train, dashing along the narrow corridors, past snogging sixth years and bossy prefects, flinging open carriage doors, and giving the trolley lady the fright of her life as he vaulted over a large box of Limas Crazy Blob Drops.

He was heading into the last carriage as the whistle sounded again and the Hogwarts Express lurched forward, throwing him sideways into the nearest compartment where he landed in a heap on top of Hermione Granger.

_“WHAT THE… MALFOY?”_

“Fuck, Gra—Hermione, I’m… fuck… I’m sorry… fuck…”

He was lying completely over her, Hermione’s body twisted underneath, their faces inches apart.

“Why are you all… damp?” she asked, her breath coming in little puffs that warmed his cheek.

“What? Oh, fuck!”

He maneuvered himself off her as delicately as possible, plonking down in the seat opposite, and rubbing his sweaty palms over his equally sweaty face.

“This has all gone tits up,” he moaned. _“Fuck it!”_

Hermione fixed her dress — a v-neck navy and floral print design that accentuated her slim figure and gave Draco an eyeful of those deliciously long legs. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip hard.

“Malfoy? What’s the matter?”

Draco stood up abruptly. “Would you excuse me please, Hermione?”

Without waiting for her to answer, he marched out the compartment, past more snogging students — this time a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, go figure! — and locked himself in the small toilet.

The driver could probably hear the scream of frustration from his cab.

Feeling a tad better, Draco cast a _Scourgify_ over himself from head to toe, tidied his hair and clothes, and checked his breath.

Right, let’s try this again.

He proceeded back down the corridor, opening the compartment door and locking it behind him. The blinds were then drawn before Hermione could open her mouth; she just watched in complete bewilderment as Draco took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and proceeded to sit back down again in the seat he’d vacated minutes before.

“Hermione,” he began, tapping his fingers on the armrests and looking a little delirious, “Guess what? I’m in love with you, have been for years. Isn’t that hilarious! I’ve failed miserably to get your attention at the Ministry functions; I’ve either ignored you or gotten completely twatted. Thank you for looking after me that time, by the way. I heard Potter had a son. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, completely in love with you. Did you know… well, no, you wouldn’t… I’ve spent almost three hundred thousand Galleons bribing those Slytherin bitches to let me accompany them to the functions — I’ve bought Easter eggs, shiny nails, train tickets, handbags, something called milk stout — all just to be near you.

“I worked at Hogwarts for the whole summer doing Filch’s work _by hand_ , just to earn some… I don’t know… fuck—” he slumped forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tugging at his hair, “—respect, I guess. I don’t want you to think of me as some trust-fund blond… _mimbo_. I can’t help the blond, it’s natural. But I’m determined to prove myself to you, I don’t care what others think of me. I just want _you_ to like me. You don’t have to like me back, although I have a feeling…”

He smiled sheepishly at her. “I think you _love_ me too.”

_“What?”_

“The names of your charities,” he explained, “The acronyms spell I Heart Draco M.”

“I-I know that.”

“Then you _do_ love me,” he pressed.

She nodded, her brow still knitted together.

“Then… what’s the problem?”

“You spent over a million pounds just to get my attention!”

“I did.”

“Are… are you mad? Are you seriously—”

“I’m not mad, Hermione,” Draco grinned, reaching out to take her hands in his. “I’m so fucking in love with you, I’ve almost bankrupted myself. I had to take the job at Hogwarts so I wouldn’t lose my apartment. I can’t go back to the Manor, they’re shoving pipes up arseholes in my old room — I’ll explain later.”

Hermione stared at their joined hands for a few moments before looking up into his cool, silver eyes, still not quite sure what was happening. She was all set for a long train journey and weekly prayers that Draco might just turn up at the Leaky whenever she was there. But this? She’d never expected _this._

“I kept my feelings quiet because I never thought you’d look twice at me, Draco, and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. The acronyms came about without me actually realising what I’d done but no one was paying much attention to the charities anyway — until your father became involved. His new book is crap, by the way.”

“Don’t I fucking know it!”

“Do you… do you think we can do this? You and I? I… I don’t want to get hurt… please.”

Her worried expression nearly melted his heart.

“We can do this, Hermione. I want you so much! The past months have been fucking torture, trying to get your attention, making an arse of it everytime. Please, _please_ , give me a chance.”

“I am so in love with you, Draco,” she whispered, gripping his hands tighter.

“Merlin, witch, you’ve no idea!”

Her eyes sparkled with pure joy; she was beauty personified in that moment.

“Are you still working at Hogwarts? Or are you a stowaway on the train?”

His smile could have illuminated a black hole.

“Well, Professor Granger,” he quipped, pulling Hermione forward to sit on his knee, “Perhaps you should address me as Professor Malfoy, considering I’ll be teaching Potions from now on.”

He kissed her tenderly, a delicate caress with a hint of what could be.

“Hey,” he smiled against her lips, “Do you think they’ll put my room next to yours?”

Hermione laughed, pulling him down as she conjured the compartment seats into a large couch.

“I think we could ask nicely, Draco.”

_Fin._


End file.
